


Up to the Old Inn Door

by sameuspegasus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Dean is really good at interrogating people, Gen, POV Outsider, ghost horse, old ladies like Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameuspegasus/pseuds/sameuspegasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something strange about the stables at the Moonlight Inn. And who are these mysterious young men?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up to the Old Inn Door

Recipient:[](http://just-ruth.livejournal.com/profile)[ **just_ruth**](http://just-ruth.livejournal.com/)  
Author:[](http://sameuspegasus.livejournal.com/profile)[ **sameuspegasus**](http://sameuspegasus.livejournal.com/)  
Artist:[](http://forhimxx.livejournal.com/profile)[ **forhimxx**](http://forhimxx.livejournal.com/)  
Title: Up to the Old Inn Door  
Summary: There's something strange about the stables at the Moonlight Inn. And who are these mysterious young men?  
Characters/Pairings: Gen, outsider POV  
Rating: G  
Wordcount:4694  


  
  


Moonlight shone through the gap in the curtains, casting a cool glow across Mildred McDonald's face as she lay in bed, sucked too far into the deep, almost paralysing state of near-sleep to bother getting up to draw them closed. She rolled onto her side and flung an arm across her eyes to block out the light. Something clopped through the courtyard, a peaceful, restful sound. As the noise faded, sleep overtook her once more, and she paid no more attention to anything but her dreams.

Outside, frost crept across her window and then slowly melted away; crept across and melted; crept across and melted, as the hoof beats circled the garden.

Mildred woke up to sunlight pouring through the gap between the frilly gingham curtains, turning dust particles to gold in the air. Shoving back the patchwork quilt and sitting up, she rubbed her eyes. She felt amazingly well rested. She was so glad she'd taken the trip. When she'd first won the weekend at the historical Moonlight Inn, she'd thought it might be some kind of trick. Why would they just give away a trip to a random person they called on the phone? But now she was here, it was wonderful. The inn was quaint and sweet, the food was good, and the empty land around it almost made her feel as though the twentieth century had never happened. Her bed was comfortable, and she had a vague memory of a rhythmic clopping noise lulling her to sleep.

Breakfast was served in the dining room, a large white-painted room with blue trimmings, and windows with blooming flower boxes outside. It was very quiet - the inn didn't seem to have many other customers.

"Plain oatmeal, I'm afraid," the plump innkeeper told her as she served her breakfast. "Usually, there would be our speciality, apple and cinnamon oatmeal, but we seem to have run out of apples. I just don't know where they all go." She shook her head and bustled back to the kitchen, leaving Mildred to enjoy the perfectly acceptable plain oatmeal, and admire the view of the courtyard.

Well, that was odd. Mildred frowned. Hadn't the ornamental pony cart been across the other side last night? She was sure she'd seen it in the side garden yesterday afternoon. She remembered because she had admired the stunning climbing roses entwined about its wheels. That cart clearly hadn't been moved in years. She shrugged it off and took another bite of oatmeal. Someone must have moved it this morning. Goodness knows she hadn't been up with the sunrise.

She took a stroll about the garden after breakfast. Sure enough, the rickety cart had been moved. There were clear signs of it being forced from the prickly snares of the climbing rose and dragged through the flower bed. The left wheel was broken and wouldn't turn, and it had left a deep trench in the dirt. What was stranger, though, was that between the wheel marks were unmistakable hoof prints, and Mildred had yet to see a horse in this place.

Mildred shook off the feeling that something strange was going on, and sat on the rustic wooden bench in the side garden, taking out her knitting. As she wrestled the fluffy, pink yarn into something resembling a scarf, she began noticing other things. The door of the disused stable in the corner of the property was swinging by one hinge. When she had taken the tour inside it yesterday, the door had been in perfect working order, and everything had been exactly as would be expected in a historical stable preserved for tourists to admire. There was a slight scattering of hay outside the door, as though it had been blown from the stall display by a gust of wind. No, Mildred, she told herself firmly. Nothing odd is going on here. This is just retirement talking. A sudden chill came over her, her finger joints seizing up with cold, a shiver passing through her. Maybe it was time to move inside for a while.

Something clopped behind her as she made her shivering way back to her room, a hollow noise like someone banging coconut shells together.

As she emerged from her room in a thick, woollen cardigan, a movement caught her eye. She turned just in time to see the old pony cart stop, its front end dropping to the ground, back in its old place by the climbing rose. She blinked. No, it must have been there all along. She was imagining things.

As she sat in the dining room, sipping her tea and admiring the view of the courtyard, two young men came in. She had to say, it would be nice to have some company. This was a lovely place, but it was lonely with no other visitors, and one tended to imagine things in the absence of social stimulation.

The two young men talked to the innkeeper for a moment, arranging rooms for themselves. Mildred watched curiously. They didn't seem like the type of young men who would appreciate a well-preserved country inn such as this one. They were wearing rough clothes and boots, and the older one, at least, seemed confused by the window boxes. But, as Mildred well knew, it didn't do to judge by appearances. Just because that one had long hair didn't necessarily mean he was a drug addict, and just because the other one didn't appreciate a well-presented miniature window-garden didn't mean he wasn't a perfectly nice young man.

The innkeeper led the boys away to show them their rooms, and Mildred went back to her tea. She was sure they would be back in a moment, and then she could have a nice chat with them.

But the young men didn't return as she finished her tea. In fact, she didn't see them again until she returned to her bench by the mysterious pony cart. The taller young man with the peculiar hair was crouching in front of the stables, peering at something on the ground.  
Mildred decided it was time to take another stroll. Rolling up her knitting and pulling her knitting bag over one shoulder, she stood up. Sunlight was drenching the garden, and there was no sign of the cold breeze that had prompted her trip indoors. She wandered across to the damaged garden where the pony cart had been returned, under the pretence of inspecting the roses. From this new vantage point, she could see that the two rough young men were examining the stables closely. The enormous, long-haired man crouched in the entrance was picking up pieces of what appeared to be dirt with a small stick, saying something to his friend that Mildred couldn't quite catch. Of the other man, Mildred could only see glimpses as he moved about in the old stable.

Mildred hurriedly returned her attention to the pony cart as the two men left the stables, the long-haired one wiping his hands on his jeans, the other mysteriously dusty.  She picked up a crushed rose from the ground and inhaled the sweet scent of the broken pink petals. It was rather sad, she thought, that someone had chosen to drag the plants support away. Obviously, someone had moved it. Broken pony carts didn't move on their own.

"Ectoplasm," said the dust-covered man as the two men walked past. Then: "What's that?" The two pairs of footsteps halted behind Mildred.  
Mildred turned to greet the two new guests with what she hoped was a warm motherly smile that didn't show disapproval of people who failed to cut their hair or made fun of beautiful window boxes.  
They weren't looking at her. Instead, they were peering at the pony cart beside her. "That's a climbing rose, Dean," the long haired man informed his friend in tones conveying exactly how much he disapproved of his friend's lack of culture.  
Dean glared at him. "Not the rose! And not the old lady either."  
Mildred cleared her throat softly.  
The taller one groaned and rolled his eyes, before offering Mildred a tentative smile and stepping forward with his hand outstretched. "I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean."  
Dean smiled the shining, dishonest smile of a man about to feign interest in something he didn't care about. "So, what happened to the climbing roses?"  
Sam looked a little worried. "Not that we're accusing you of anything."  
Dean nudged his brother, muttering something out of the corner of his mouth. Both of them stepped forward to peer at the pony cart, which was tilted heavily to one side in the remnants of the roses, deep gouges in the dirt showing where it had been dragged.  
"This was a beautiful garden yesterday," Mildred told them. "You mustn't judge it by what you see now."  
"Oh, I would have loved to see that," Sam said, with slightly forced enthusiasm. "You wouldn't happen to have a photo, would you?"  
Mildred smiled at him. "No, dear." Her nephew Ian had shown her how to use the camera on the fancy portable telephone he'd given her, but she had immediately forgotten his instructions.  
Surprisingly, Sam's face fell in disappointment. Mildred had been sure he was simply asking for pictures out of politeness, but now it seemed he was genuinely interested. "Well, dear," Mildred told him, "I do have a picture."  
Her friend Mabel told her regularly that her paintings were terrible, just as Mildred informed Mabel that her romance novels were unreadable and slightly embarrassing, but Mildred was really quite proud of the watercolour she had done of the garden yesterday afternoon. She thought she'd captured the rustic tranquillity quite well. Sam seemed very eager to see it, while Dean enthusiastically recommended she show it and any other paintings she might have to his brother, who was quite the artist himself.  
Sam looked so excited by the prospect of seeing her artwork that she found she couldn't refuse him. Gripping his proffered arm for balance, she made her way out of the now quite disturbed flowerbed. She turned to ask Dean if he would like to join them for a cup of tea, but Dean was crouched by the pony cart absorbed in closely examining the broken wheel.  
"He likes to fix things," Sam told her by way of explanation, as they walked around the corner to the inn door. Mildred nodded understandingly. Ian liked to fix things. There was no stopping him when he got his hands on her computer, which was forever breaking down, and really no replacement for a pen and paper.

Sam, it transpired, was a very nice young man, despite his hair. After spending several minutes looking at the picture of the garden as it had been the day before, he admired her entire sketch book of water colours. Apart from the small hiccup where he had asked if the picture of her cat Aggie was a bear, he was pleasant and friendly, and decidedly good company after two days with nobody except the innkeeper to talk to.

While Sam was admiring her watercolours, Mildred kept one eye on the courtyard through the window. Dean appeared around the corner a few moments later, walking a strange path around the courtyard. He walked slowly, looking down at the ground, and every few steps he would bend down and look at something on the ground. He circled the yard three times, moving in a loop that seemed to start by the rose garden, cross in front of the inn, go along the side fence beside the hydrangeas (a particularly nice shade of purple), along the front fence by the narrow country lane, and back to the rose garden. Once, Mildred was quite sure she saw him prod something with his finger and then sniff it.

"Why did you choose to stay here, if you don't mind me asking?" Sam recalled her attention.  
Mildred refilled his tea cup and began telling him all about the mysterious phone call that had led to her staying here.  
Sam's face took on a peculiar expression as she told her story. He seemed to be thinking very hard about something.  
"So the Landlady rang you out of the blue and offered to let you stay here for free?" He asked, in the same worried tone that Ian had used when she had informed him of her intention to take up the offer.  
"Oh yes," she told him. When he still looked worried, she added, "Don't worry young man. I've been looking after myself a long time. I checked that it wasn't a confidence trick, and even if it had been, I don't have any money for them to steal."  
Sam offered her a tight smile. "And what do you think of the place?"  
"Oh, it's lovely. A bit draughty, mind you. I had to put on an extra blanket last night. And, like all old buildings there are some strange noises, but all in all it's been lovely and peaceful."  
"Have your lights been flickering?" He asked her with rather more intensity than she felt the situation called for.  
"No," she began, but then it struck her that her lights had flickered briefly as she had prepared for bed the night before. "Well, only what you would expect. The inn isn't connected to mains electricity, after all; it's all run from a generator."

Dean came in a few moments later, boots shedding dirt all over the freshly swept planks of the dining room floor. He made a jerking head movement at his brother, and his brother returned it with a miniscule raising of the eyebrows and pursing of the lips. Dean shrugged his shoulders and trailed dirt across the room as he came to sit at their table.  
"Tea?" Mildred offered.  
Dean's face took on an expression of barely contained revulsion, but he accepted the cup anyway.  
"Has Sam showed you any of his art yet?" Dean asked with a grin.  
"Oh, no," Mildred exclaimed. "You must, Sam, you really must."  
Sam looked uncomfortable. "They're really... not very good."  
Dean clapped his brother on the back. "Oh, he's just being modest. I really think it would be helpful for his confidence if he could show you."  
Mildred patted Sam's hand. "You don't have to show me if you don't want, dear. It can be frightening showing your work." And then, because she couldn't control her curiosity (not nosiness, Mabel, just a healthy interest in other people), she asked him what he'd been doing outside.  
"Um... exercise routine," Dean said vaguely.  
Mildred peered at him curiously. "Do you find it invigorating?"  
"Um," said Dean, and took a mouthful of nearly cold tea, "It's very good. But do you know what's even better exercise? Horseriding."  
"Oh, you ride horses?" Mildred had been something of a horsewoman in her youth. Of course, she hadn't had much opportunity to ride in recent years, but it would be nice to chat to someone about it.  
"Oh, he's very into horses," Sam told her, with the same expression his brother had had when talking about Sam's art.  
"I like horses," Dean said, "Now that you mention it, I heard something about horses around here."  
"Oh no, dear," Mildred informed him. It had been a great disappointment to discover that the inn didn't keep any horses. "Not for years."  
"Are you sure? We were told they were unusual, a real sight to see."  
Mildred looked at him curiously. "Unusual in what sense?"  
Dean suddenly looked flustered. "Kind of... er... see-through?"  
"I think I've had enough tea," Mildred said abruptly, standing up. "Thank you for the tea and company, Sam, but it's time for my lie-down."

As she walked out of the dining room, she thought she saw Sam kick his brother under the table.

Of course, she didn't go and lie down. She was much too intrigued. Mabel liked to tell her off for being too nosy, but Mabel wasn't here, and something fishy was definitely going on.  
She waited until the boys thought she was out of earshot before lurking out of sight, pretending to take a breather from the long and arduous walk to her ground floor room.

"The pony cart has blood all over the broken wheel," Dean was telling his brother. "We just have to burn that and Black Beauty will be off to the great green pasture in the sky."  
"It doesn't seem to be doing anything, though, Dean," Sam replied. "I mean, aside from stealing some apples and dragging a broken cart around in circles. It hasn't hurt anyone."  
"Not yet," Dean said darkly. "But what if they run out of apples?"  
"Fine, but we have to wait until later," said Sam. "We have to drag it somewhere where it won't set anything on fire."

Mildred followed them outside after that, but they seemed to have decided to wait until dark to do anything about the cart. She supposed what she should do was tell the innkeeper their plans, but to tell the truth she was relieved someone else had noticed something odd about that cart.

Clearly the two men weren't used to spending warm afternoons relaxing in sun-drenched country gardens. Sam sat on the bench by the rose gardens with a large, old book that looked much too fragile to be outside, while his brother wandered around looking at stuff.  
"This is weird, man," Dean said, "What do people do all day?"  
"Relax, have some peace and quiet. Read a book. Go for a walk and look at the scenery."  
"What for?"  
"No reason. People come to places like this to see the scenery and escape modern life. Just go exploring and smell the flowers."  
"This is weird."  
"Dude, either sit down or go away."  
Mildred took pity on him and offered him the old Agatha Christie she carried around in her knitting bag. Everyone liked a bit of Miss Marple.  
After making sure the two men were thoroughly engrossed in their books, Mildred made her way across to the old stable, determined to find out what they had been looking at in there. She might be retired, but her wits weren't dull yet. She knew they were investigating something, and that it had to do with the stables and the mysterious movements of the pony cart, and if something strange was happening that required a bonfire, she wanted to know what it was.

There was a strange black substance oozing down the wall of the old stable, some kind of mould possibly. Hay had been pulled from the stall and scattered outside. Something squished under her shoe. Hmmm, interesting. Unless the gardeners used horse manure as fertiliser and kept it nearby, she was beginning to think there might be something to the strange "see-through horse" theory that Dean had proposed.  
Inside the stable, more of the black ooze crept down the wall, sticking to her hand as she felt her way along it. It was darker than she'd expected in the stable, and it wasn't connected to the electricity of the inn. She shivered in the sudden cold.

Frost crackled across the hay in the stall, hidden by the darkness.

Something flickered behind her, a large glowing shape. She turned to look and let out a gasp, clutching a hand to her chest as her heart gave a strange shudder.

It turned out Dean had been right about the unusual horses.

In fact, there was only one unusual horse, but it was unusual enough to make up for that. Mildred could see the rough wooden boards of the stable wall through its flank.

"Ooh," she breathed.

The see-through horse stamped a hairy hoof and laid its ears back. Even in a normal horse that wouldn't be a good sign. Mildred edged sideways towards the broken door.

The horse stamped again, kicking up a spray of frozen hay and let out an ominous snort. Mildred froze.

Suddenly the door was flung open, almost torn from its hinge with urgency. Sam was in front of her, shielding her with his body (truly enormous, up close) as he helped her from the stable. Around him, she caught a glimpse of the horse lowering its head to charge.

Then Dean was there, moving slowly towards it, with movements confident but clearly chosen to seem relaxing and unthreatening. He held out a hand in front of him, flat, and on it sat a sugar cube.

"Hey there," he said soothingly. "You like sugar, don't you. There's a good horsie. There's more after this if you're a good boy."

Mildred watched in amazement as the horse stopped pawing the ground and looked at Dean, still not calm, but less angry. As it calmed down, she realised it was smaller than she'd imagined, a large pony rather than a carthorse.

The pony carefully took the lump of sugar from Dean's outstretched hand and whickered, shaking its shaggy, translucent head in delight at the taste. Dean set another lump of sugar in his hand and held it out for the pony.

"Are you alright?" Sam asked Mildred, hovering over her in concern, like a giant hen. "Don't worry, we'll explain everything to you, but first we have to get you somewhere safe."

The pony was snuffling at Dean's jacket pockets as Mildred allowed Sam to hustle her back to the dining room, where he sat her at a table with a nice view of the courtyard and poured a thick circle of salt around her before making her a piping hot cup of tea.

"There isn't any sugar, sorry," said Sam, "Dean's using it."  
"That was an unusual horse," Mildred managed to croak. The initial shock was wearing off, but she was still finding certain parts of herself weren't working properly, like her voice and her ability to think clearly.  
"We aren't really here for the peace and quiet," Sam confessed to her.  
"I thought not."  
"You see, we've been hearing stories about this place. Things moving around of their own accord, hoof beats in the night, a glimpse or two of a ghostly horse. The owners were trying to spread the word of a haunting, to drum up some business. We were in the neighbourhood, thought we'd check it out. It sounded harmless enough, but even the friendliest of spirits can turn vengeful. They tend to overreact to small things."  
"How so?" Mildred thought it best not to think too hard about what he was telling her. She had never thought she believed in ghosts, but the evidence was certainly pointing to their existence at the moment.  
"The owners keep him happy with a supply of apples and free range of the grounds. Only, it seems they've run out of apples, and he's a bit upset about it. The pony cart in the garden used to be full of them, but he ate them all, so he's been moving the cart around and getting angrier as the day goes by."  
"So if he gets more apples, he won't charge people down? Won't too many apples make him sick?" She remembered once when she was a little girl, the girl next door had fed her pony too many apples and it had got colic.  
Sam smiled wryly. "He's already dead, I don't think it matters."

Dean came in at that moment, dirtier than ever. Small pieces of hay were sticking out of his hair, which was more tousled than it had been, and there was a streak of the black goo Mildred had seen in the stable running down his jacket, finishing at the pocket. "I've managed to calm him down for now," he said, "but I don't know how long it's gonna hold. He didn't look that happy about me putting a salt line across the stable door so he couldn't follow me."  
"Look at you, the horse whisperer," said Sam. "So you think we shouldn't wait for dark to burn the cart?"  
"Are you okay?" Dean asked Mildred, but barely waited for her reply before answering his brother. "It definitely can't wait. The owner of this place is in serious trouble, and I don't even think more apples will help. There's only so much exploitation apples can pay for."  
"Wait!" Mildred called as they began to walk away.  
"Oh yeah," said Dean, pulling her paperback, now rumpled and stained with black goo, from his pocket and handing it to her.  
"Thank you," she said in surprise, "But why do you have to burn the pony cart?"  
"There was some kind of accident that hurt Boris bad. His blood is still all over the broken wheel. We salt and burn it, he goes on his way."  
"Wait, how do you know his name is Boris?" Sam asked.  
"I'm a horse whisperer, I talked to him. It was written on his stall, dude."  
"Oh. Mildred, stay here and do not leave this circle. Boris is not going to like this." Sam ordered, looking so severe that Mildred decided she would follow his instructions despite her desire to see what was going on. After all, they were the professionals.  
"Trust me," Dean offered her a smile, "You're not going to want to be any closer."

So Mildred watched out through the blue-framed window as Sam dragged the pony cart into the centre of the courtyard, where it was unlikely the fire would spread to anything. It was strange looking out over the marigolds blooming brightly in the window box, at a large, long-haired young man calmly pouring gasoline on an old cart.

Around the side of the inn, she could hear galloping hooves, much louder than the gentle clopping that had lulled her to sleep the previous night. Dean's voice yelled at Sam to hurry up, and let out an expletive that Mildred would usually strongly disapprove of.

Sam tipped rock salt from a large can onto the gasoline-soaked remnants of the cart, just as Dean came sprinting around the corner and threw himself sideways to avoid being trampled by the ghost of Boris the pony, now very clearly angry. "Hurry, Sammy! Boris doesn't like me anymore!" he shouted, and fired a gun like the ones she saw bank robbers use in movies in the direction of the ghost before rolling to his feet and taking off again.

In the daylight, the ghost was less visible than it had been in the dark of the stables, just a flickering brightness of air a slightly different colour to the rest. It kicked its back legs out hard and Mildred saw a picnic table crack and go flying.

Sam flicked his lighter and flung it at the cart, which went up in a whoosh of orange and red. Mildred could feel the heat from her seat inside. Where the pony had flickered a moment ago, there was a flash and crackle of flames and a distressed neighing, and then, as the flames on the cart burned down, the pony disappeared. Mildred took a large swallow of tea.

Sam and Dean tramped in a few moments later, tracking in soot and dirt and hay. Dean was sweating heavily, while Sam smelled strongly of smoke.

"It's over," Dean told her, breaking the salt circle around her.  
"Boris is in a better place, now," Sam added, "He won't be attacking people in the stables anymore."  
The door opened suddenly to reveal a shocked and angry looking innkeeper. "What the hell is going on here? I leave for one afternoon and I come back to this vandalism! I've got a good mind to call the police!"  
"We were just leaving," Dean said.  
"Sorry about your cart," Sam added.

Five minutes later, they were gone, and all that was left was a pile of smoking ash in the courtyard, a fuming landlady, and Mildred, sitting in a ring of salt in the dining room, holding her Miss Marple paperback and a scrap of paper with Dean Winchester's cell phone number on it.  
She went to fetch her sketch book. The blue window frame and window box filled with marigolds would make a nice juxtaposition against the smoking heap outside.


End file.
